SONGTO THE EVENING STAR.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),“Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away;And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.”Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blindCan I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind;To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,

And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),“Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away;And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.”

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,

She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),

“Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away;

And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.”

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,

And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;

When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,

I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,

And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,

How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,

And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,

Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;

But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,

And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blindCan I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind;To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind

Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind;

To my sweet native village, so far, far away,

I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

Star that bringest home the bee,And sett’st the weary labourer free!If any star shed peace, ’tis thou,That send’st it from above,Appearing when Heaven’s breath and browAre sweet as hers we love.Come to the luxuriant skies,Whilst the landscape’s odours rise,Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,And songs, when toil is done,From cottages whose smoke unstirredCurls yellow in the sun.Star of love’s soft interviews,Parted lovers on thee muse;Their remembrancer in HeavenOf thrilling vows thou art,Too delicious to be rivenBy absence from the heart.

Star that bringest home the bee,

And sett’st the weary labourer free!

If any star shed peace, ’tis thou,

That send’st it from above,

Appearing when Heaven’s breath and brow

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,Whilst the landscape’s odours rise,Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,And songs, when toil is done,From cottages whose smoke unstirredCurls yellow in the sun.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape’s odours rise,

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,

And songs, when toil is done,

From cottages whose smoke unstirred

Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love’s soft interviews,Parted lovers on thee muse;Their remembrancer in HeavenOf thrilling vows thou art,Too delicious to be rivenBy absence from the heart.

Star of love’s soft interviews,

Parted lovers on thee muse;

Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,

Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood!Men whose undegenerate spiritHas been proved on land and flood:—By the foes ye’ve fought uncounted,By the glorious deeds ye’ve done,Trophies captured—breaches mounted,Navies conquered—kingdoms won!Yet, remember, England gathersHence but fruitless wreaths of fame,If the patriotism of your fathersGlow not in your hearts the same.What are monuments of bravery,Where no public virtues bloom?What avail in lands of slavery,Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?Pageants!—Let the world revere usFor our people’s rights and laws,And the breasts of civic heroesBared in Freedom’s holy cause.Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory,Sydney’s matchless shade is yours,—Martyrs in heroic story,Worth a hundred Agincourts!We’re the sons of sires that baffledCrowned and mitred tyranny:—They defied the field and scaffoldFor their birthrights—so will we!

Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood!Men whose undegenerate spiritHas been proved on land and flood:—

Men of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood!

Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood:—

By the foes ye’ve fought uncounted,By the glorious deeds ye’ve done,Trophies captured—breaches mounted,Navies conquered—kingdoms won!

By the foes ye’ve fought uncounted,

By the glorious deeds ye’ve done,

Trophies captured—breaches mounted,

Navies conquered—kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathersHence but fruitless wreaths of fame,If the patriotism of your fathersGlow not in your hearts the same.

Yet, remember, England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,

If the patriotism of your fathers

Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,Where no public virtues bloom?What avail in lands of slavery,Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

What are monuments of bravery,

Where no public virtues bloom?

What avail in lands of slavery,

Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!—Let the world revere usFor our people’s rights and laws,And the breasts of civic heroesBared in Freedom’s holy cause.

Pageants!—Let the world revere us

For our people’s rights and laws,

And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom’s holy cause.

Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory,Sydney’s matchless shade is yours,—Martyrs in heroic story,Worth a hundred Agincourts!

Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory,

Sydney’s matchless shade is yours,—

Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We’re the sons of sires that baffledCrowned and mitred tyranny:—They defied the field and scaffoldFor their birthrights—so will we!

We’re the sons of sires that baffled

Crowned and mitred tyranny:—

They defied the field and scaffold

For their birthrights—so will we!

Never wedding, ever wooing,Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,Read you not the wrong you’re doingIn my cheek’s pale hue?All my life with sorrow strewing,Wed, or cease to woo.Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,Still our days are disunited;Now the lamp of hope is lighted,Now half quenched appears,Damped, and wavering, and benighted,Midst my sighs and tears.Charms you call your dearest blessing,Lips that thrill at your caressing,Eyes a mutual soul confessing,Soon you’ll make them growDim, and worthless your possessingNot with age, but woe!

Never wedding, ever wooing,Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,Read you not the wrong you’re doingIn my cheek’s pale hue?All my life with sorrow strewing,Wed, or cease to woo.

Never wedding, ever wooing,

Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,

Read you not the wrong you’re doing

In my cheek’s pale hue?

All my life with sorrow strewing,

Wed, or cease to woo.

Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,Still our days are disunited;Now the lamp of hope is lighted,Now half quenched appears,Damped, and wavering, and benighted,Midst my sighs and tears.

Rivals banished, bosoms plighted,

Still our days are disunited;

Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

Now half quenched appears,

Damped, and wavering, and benighted,

Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,Lips that thrill at your caressing,Eyes a mutual soul confessing,Soon you’ll make them growDim, and worthless your possessingNot with age, but woe!

Charms you call your dearest blessing,

Lips that thrill at your caressing,

Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you’ll make them grow

Dim, and worthless your possessing

Not with age, but woe!

Drink ye to her that each loves best.And if you nurse a flameThat’s told but to her mutual breast,We will not ask her name.Enough, while memory tranced and gladPaints silently the fair,That each should dream of joys he’s had,Or yet may hope to share.Yet far, far hence be jest or boastFrom hallowed thoughts so dear;But drink to them that we love most,As they would love to hear.

Drink ye to her that each loves best.And if you nurse a flameThat’s told but to her mutual breast,We will not ask her name.

Drink ye to her that each loves best.

And if you nurse a flame

That’s told but to her mutual breast,

We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and gladPaints silently the fair,That each should dream of joys he’s had,Or yet may hope to share.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he’s had,

Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boastFrom hallowed thoughts so dear;But drink to them that we love most,As they would love to hear.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallowed thoughts so dear;

But drink to them that we love most,

As they would love to hear.

When Napoleon was flyingFrom the field of Waterloo,A British soldier dyingTo his brother bade adieu!“And take,” he said, “this tokenTo the maid that owns my faith,With the words that I have spokenIn affection’s latest breath.”Sore mourned the brother’s heart,When the youth beside him fell;But the trumpet warned to part,And they took a sad farewell.There was many a friend to lose him,For that gallant soldier sighed;But the maiden of his bosomWept when all their tears were dried.

When Napoleon was flyingFrom the field of Waterloo,A British soldier dyingTo his brother bade adieu!

When Napoleon was flying

From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier dying

To his brother bade adieu!

“And take,” he said, “this tokenTo the maid that owns my faith,With the words that I have spokenIn affection’s latest breath.”

“And take,” he said, “this token

To the maid that owns my faith,

With the words that I have spoken

In affection’s latest breath.”

Sore mourned the brother’s heart,When the youth beside him fell;But the trumpet warned to part,And they took a sad farewell.

Sore mourned the brother’s heart,

When the youth beside him fell;

But the trumpet warned to part,

And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,For that gallant soldier sighed;But the maiden of his bosomWept when all their tears were dried.

There was many a friend to lose him,

For that gallant soldier sighed;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

O leave this barren spot to me!Spare, woodman, spare the beechen treeThough bush or floweret never growMy dark unwarming shade below;Nor summer bird perfume the dewOf rosy blush, or yellow hue;Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,My green and glossy leaves adorn;Nor murmuring tribes from me deriveThe ambrosial amber of the hive;Yet leave this barren spot to me:Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!Thrice twenty summers I have seenThe sky grow bright, the forest green;And many a wintry wind have stoodIn bloomless, fruitless solitude,Since childhood in my pleasant bowerFirst spent its sweet and sportive hour.Since youthful lovers in my shadeTheir vows of truth and rapture made;And on my trunk’s surviving frameCarved many a long-forgotten name.Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,First breathed upon this sacred ground,By all that Love has whispered here,Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;As Love’s own altar honour me:Spare woodman, spare the beechen tree!

O leave this barren spot to me!

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree

Though bush or floweret never grow

My dark unwarming shade below;

Nor summer bird perfume the dew

Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;

Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,

My green and glossy leaves adorn;

Nor murmuring tribes from me derive

The ambrosial amber of the hive;

Yet leave this barren spot to me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seenThe sky grow bright, the forest green;And many a wintry wind have stoodIn bloomless, fruitless solitude,Since childhood in my pleasant bowerFirst spent its sweet and sportive hour.Since youthful lovers in my shadeTheir vows of truth and rapture made;And on my trunk’s surviving frameCarved many a long-forgotten name.Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,First breathed upon this sacred ground,By all that Love has whispered here,Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;As Love’s own altar honour me:Spare woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen

The sky grow bright, the forest green;

And many a wintry wind have stood

In bloomless, fruitless solitude,

Since childhood in my pleasant bower

First spent its sweet and sportive hour.

Since youthful lovers in my shade

Their vows of truth and rapture made;

And on my trunk’s surviving frame

Carved many a long-forgotten name.

Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,

First breathed upon this sacred ground,

By all that Love has whispered here,

Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;

As Love’s own altar honour me:

Spare woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Earl March looked on his dying child,And smit with grief to view her—“The youth,” he cried, “whom I exiled,Shall be restored to woo her.”She’s at the window many an hourHis coming to discover;And her love looked up to Ellen’s bower,And she looked on her lover—But ah! so pale, he knew her not,Though her smile on him was dwelling.“And am I then forgot—forgot?”—It broke the heart of Ellen.In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,Her cheek is cold as ashes;Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyesTo lift their silken lashes.

Earl March looked on his dying child,And smit with grief to view her—“The youth,” he cried, “whom I exiled,Shall be restored to woo her.”

Earl March looked on his dying child,

And smit with grief to view her—

“The youth,” he cried, “whom I exiled,

Shall be restored to woo her.”

She’s at the window many an hourHis coming to discover;And her love looked up to Ellen’s bower,And she looked on her lover—

She’s at the window many an hour

His coming to discover;

And her love looked up to Ellen’s bower,

And she looked on her lover—

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,Though her smile on him was dwelling.“And am I then forgot—forgot?”—It broke the heart of Ellen.

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling.

“And am I then forgot—forgot?”—

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,Her cheek is cold as ashes;Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyesTo lift their silken lashes.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes

To lift their silken lashes.

Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower[76]The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour!Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep,Poor Broderick[77]wakes—in solitude to weep!“Cease, Memory, cease,” the friendless mourner cried,“To probe the bosom too severely tried!Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to strayThrough the bright fields of Fortune’s better dayWhen youthful Hope, the music of the mind,Tuned all its charms, and Errington was kind!“Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame,In sighs to speak thy melancholy name?I hear thy spirit wail in every storm!In midnight shades I view thy passing form!Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel,Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel!“Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose commandI grasped the sword with more than woman’s hand.Say ye, did Pity’s trembling voice control,Or horror damp the purpose of my soul?No! my wild heart sat smiling o’er the plan,Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began!“Yes; let the clay-cold breast that never knewOne tender pang to generous Nature true,Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn,Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn!“And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms,Save Rapture’s homage to your conscious charms!Delighted idols of a gaudy train,Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain,When the fond faithful heart, inspired to proveFriendship refined, the calm delight of love,Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn,And bleeds at perjured Pride’s inhuman scorn!“Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed,When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?Long had I watched thy dark foreboding brow,What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow!Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed,Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged,Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown,I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone!“Oh! righteous Heaven! ’twas then my tortured soulFirst gave to wrath unlimited control!Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!The murmured plaint! the deep heart-heaving sighLong-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds;He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds!Now the last laugh of agony is o’er,And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!“’Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burnsNature relents, but, ah! too late returns!Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel?Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel!Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies,And shades of horror close my languid eyes!“Oh!’twas a deed of Murder’s deepest grain,Could Broderick’s soul so true to wrath remain?A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!—Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell?“Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glowsTo watch on silent nature’s deep repose,Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,Foretells my fate, and summons me to come!Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!“Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flameForsake its languid melancholy frame!Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close,Welcome the dreamless night of long repose!Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourneWhere, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!”

Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower[76]The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour!Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep,Poor Broderick[77]wakes—in solitude to weep!

Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower[76]

The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour!

Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep,

Poor Broderick[77]wakes—in solitude to weep!

“Cease, Memory, cease,” the friendless mourner cried,“To probe the bosom too severely tried!Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to strayThrough the bright fields of Fortune’s better dayWhen youthful Hope, the music of the mind,Tuned all its charms, and Errington was kind!

“Cease, Memory, cease,” the friendless mourner cried,

“To probe the bosom too severely tried!

Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray

Through the bright fields of Fortune’s better day

When youthful Hope, the music of the mind,

Tuned all its charms, and Errington was kind!

“Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame,In sighs to speak thy melancholy name?I hear thy spirit wail in every storm!In midnight shades I view thy passing form!Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel,Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel!

“Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame,

In sighs to speak thy melancholy name?

I hear thy spirit wail in every storm!

In midnight shades I view thy passing form!

Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel,

Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel!

“Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose commandI grasped the sword with more than woman’s hand.Say ye, did Pity’s trembling voice control,Or horror damp the purpose of my soul?No! my wild heart sat smiling o’er the plan,Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began!

“Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose command

I grasped the sword with more than woman’s hand.

Say ye, did Pity’s trembling voice control,

Or horror damp the purpose of my soul?

No! my wild heart sat smiling o’er the plan,

Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began!

“Yes; let the clay-cold breast that never knewOne tender pang to generous Nature true,Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn,Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn!

“Yes; let the clay-cold breast that never knew

One tender pang to generous Nature true,

Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn,

Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn!

“And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms,Save Rapture’s homage to your conscious charms!Delighted idols of a gaudy train,Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain,When the fond faithful heart, inspired to proveFriendship refined, the calm delight of love,Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn,And bleeds at perjured Pride’s inhuman scorn!

“And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms,

Save Rapture’s homage to your conscious charms!

Delighted idols of a gaudy train,

Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain,

When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove

Friendship refined, the calm delight of love,

Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn,

And bleeds at perjured Pride’s inhuman scorn!

“Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed,When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?Long had I watched thy dark foreboding brow,What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow!Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed,Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged,Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown,I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone!

“Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed,

When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?

Long had I watched thy dark foreboding brow,

What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow!

Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed,

Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged,

Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown,

I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone!

“Oh! righteous Heaven! ’twas then my tortured soulFirst gave to wrath unlimited control!Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!The murmured plaint! the deep heart-heaving sighLong-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds;He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds!Now the last laugh of agony is o’er,And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!

“Oh! righteous Heaven! ’twas then my tortured soul

First gave to wrath unlimited control!

Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!

The murmured plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh

Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds;

He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds!

Now the last laugh of agony is o’er,

And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!

“’Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burnsNature relents, but, ah! too late returns!Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel?Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel!Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies,And shades of horror close my languid eyes!

“’Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns

Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns!

Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel?

Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel!

Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies,

And shades of horror close my languid eyes!

“Oh!’twas a deed of Murder’s deepest grain,Could Broderick’s soul so true to wrath remain?A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!—Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell?

“Oh!’twas a deed of Murder’s deepest grain,

Could Broderick’s soul so true to wrath remain?

A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!—

Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell?

“Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glowsTo watch on silent nature’s deep repose,Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,Foretells my fate, and summons me to come!Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!

“Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows

To watch on silent nature’s deep repose,

Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,

Foretells my fate, and summons me to come!

Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,

Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!

“Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flameForsake its languid melancholy frame!Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close,Welcome the dreamless night of long repose!Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourneWhere, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!”

“Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame

Forsake its languid melancholy frame!

Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close,

Welcome the dreamless night of long repose!

Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne

Where, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!”

[76]Warwick Castle.[77]Miss Broderick: she murdered her lover, Errington.—See Campbell’s “Life and Letters,” by Dr. Beattie.

[76]Warwick Castle.

[77]Miss Broderick: she murdered her lover, Errington.—See Campbell’s “Life and Letters,” by Dr. Beattie.

Oh, how hard it is to findThe one just suited to our mind;And if that one should beFalse, unkind, or found too late,What can we do but sigh at fate,And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me!Love’s a boundless burning waste,Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste,And still more seldom fleeSuspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings;Yet somehow Love a something bringsThat’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!”

Oh, how hard it is to findThe one just suited to our mind;And if that one should beFalse, unkind, or found too late,What can we do but sigh at fate,And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me!

Oh, how hard it is to find

The one just suited to our mind;

And if that one should be

False, unkind, or found too late,

What can we do but sigh at fate,

And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me!

Love’s a boundless burning waste,Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste,And still more seldom fleeSuspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings;Yet somehow Love a something bringsThat’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!”

Love’s a boundless burning waste,

Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste,

And still more seldom flee

Suspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings;

Yet somehow Love a something brings

That’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!”

Our bosoms we’ll bare for the glorious strife,And our oath is recorded on high,To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,Or crushed in its ruins to die!Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,And swear to prevail in your dear native land!’Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust—God bless the green Isle of the brave!Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers’ dust,It would rouse the old dead from their grave!Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,And swear to prevail in your dear native land!In a Briton’s sweet home shall a spoiler abide,Profaning its loves and its charms?Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,And swear to prevail in your dear native land!Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!—No!His head to the sword shall be given—A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,And his blood be an offering to Heaven!Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Our bosoms we’ll bare for the glorious strife,

And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,

Or crushed in its ruins to die!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

’Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust—God bless the green Isle of the brave!Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers’ dust,It would rouse the old dead from their grave!Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

’Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust—

God bless the green Isle of the brave!

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers’ dust,

It would rouse the old dead from their grave!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

In a Briton’s sweet home shall a spoiler abide,Profaning its loves and its charms?Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

In a Briton’s sweet home shall a spoiler abide,

Profaning its loves and its charms?

Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?

To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!—No!His head to the sword shall be given—A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,And his blood be an offering to Heaven!Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!—No!

His head to the sword shall be given—

A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,

And his blood be an offering to Heaven!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion,For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean,Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,He sang the bold anthem of “Erin go bragh!”[79]“Sad is my fate!” said the heart-broken stranger;“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.Never again, in the green sunny bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,And strike to the numbers of ‘Erin go bragh!’“Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,In dreams I revisit the sea-beaten shore;But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace meIn a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?Never again shall my brothers embrace me?They die to defend me, or live to deplore!“Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood?Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.“Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!Land of my forefathers! ‘Erin go bragh!’Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean!And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,—Erin mavournin[80]—Erin go bragh!’”

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:

For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion,

For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean,

Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of “Erin go bragh!”[79]

“Sad is my fate!” said the heart-broken stranger;“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.Never again, in the green sunny bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,And strike to the numbers of ‘Erin go bragh!’

“Sad is my fate!” said the heart-broken stranger;

“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of ‘Erin go bragh!’

“Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,In dreams I revisit the sea-beaten shore;But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace meIn a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?Never again shall my brothers embrace me?They die to defend me, or live to deplore!

“Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit the sea-beaten shore;

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!

Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?

Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They die to defend me, or live to deplore!

“Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood?Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

“Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood?

Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?

Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,

Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

“Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!Land of my forefathers! ‘Erin go bragh!’Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean!And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,—Erin mavournin[80]—Erin go bragh!’”

“Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! ‘Erin go bragh!’

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,

Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean!

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,—

Erin mavournin[80]—Erin go bragh!’”

[78]Anthony McCann, exiled for being implicated in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Campbell met him at Hamburg.[79]Ireland for ever.[80]Ireland my darling.

[78]Anthony McCann, exiled for being implicated in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Campbell met him at Hamburg.

[79]Ireland for ever.

[80]Ireland my darling.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound,Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!And I’ll give thee a silver pound,To row us o’er the ferry.”“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?”“O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.“And fast before her father’s menThree days we’ve fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.“His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?”Outspoke the hardy Highland wight“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready;It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:“And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So though the waves are raging white,I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;[81]And in the scowl of heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,“Though tempests round us gather;I’ll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.”The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o’er her.And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,His wrath was changed to wailing.For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief,“Across this stormy water:And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—oh my daughter!”Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o’er his child—And he was left lamenting.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound,Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!And I’ll give thee a silver pound,To row us o’er the ferry.”

A chieftain to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!

And I’ll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?”“O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?”

“O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,

And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“And fast before her father’s menThree days we’ve fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.

“And fast before her father’s men

Three days we’ve fled together,

For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?”

“His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?”

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready;It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight

“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready;

It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

“And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So though the waves are raging white,I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

“And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white,

I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;[81]And in the scowl of heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;[81]

And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armèd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,“Though tempests round us gather;I’ll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.”

“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

“Though tempests round us gather;

I’ll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o’er her.

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,—

When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o’er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,His wrath was changed to wailing.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief,“Across this stormy water:And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—oh my daughter!”

“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief,

“Across this stormy water:

And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!—oh my daughter!”

Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o’er his child—And he was left lamenting.

Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o’er his child—

And he was left lamenting.

[81]The evil spirit of the waters.

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe’er,Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plumeHer wings of immortality:Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,And with thine influence illumeThe gladness of our jubilee.And fly like fiends from secret spell,Discord and strife, atBurns’sname,Exorcised by his memory;For he was chief of bards that swellThe heart with songs of social flame,And high delicious revelry.And Love’s own strain to him was given,To warble all its ecstasiesWith Pythian words unsought, unwilled—Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,The choicest sweet of Paradise,In life’s else bitter cup distilled.Who that has melted o’er his layTo Mary’s soul, in Heaven above,But pictured sees, in fancy strong,The landscape and the livelong dayThat smiled upon their mutual love?Who that has felt forgets the song?Nor skilled one flame alone to fan:His country’s high-souled peasantryWhat patriot-pride he taught!—how muchTo weigh the inborn worth of man!And rustic life and povertyGrow beautiful beneath his touch.Him, in his clay-built cot,[82]the museEntranced, and showed him all the formsOf fairy-light and wizard gloom(That only gifted Poet views),The Genii of the floods and storms,And martial shades from Glory’s tomb.On Bannock-field what thoughts arouseThe swain whomBurns’ssong inspires?Beat not his Caledonian veins,As o’er the heroic turf he ploughs,With all the spirit of his sires,And all their scorn of death and chains?And see the Scottish exile tannedBy many a far and foreign clime,Bend o’er his home-born verse, and weepIn memory of his native land,With love that scorns the lapse of time,And ties that stretch beyond the deep.Encamped by Indian rivers wild,The soldier resting on his arms,InBurns’scarol sweet recallsThe scenes that blessed him when a child,And glows and gladdens at the charmsOf Scotia’s woods and waterfalls.O deem not, midst this worldly strife,An idle art the Poet brings:Let high Philosophy controlAnd sages calm the stream of life,’Tis he refines its fountain-springs,The nobler passions of the soul.It is the muse that consecratesThe native banner of the brave,Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath,Rose, thistle, harp; ’tis she elatesTo sweep the field or ride the wave,A sunburst in the storm of death.And thou, young hero, when thy pallIs crossed with mournful sword and plume,When public grief begins to fade,And only tears of kindred fall,Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,And greet with fame thy gallant shade?Such was the soldier—Burns, forgiveThat sorrows of mine own intrudeIn strains to thy great memory due.In verse like thine, oh! could he live,The friend I mourned—the brave, the good—Edward that died at Waterloo![83]Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!That couldst alternately impartWisdom and rapture in thy page,And brand each vice with satire strong,Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,Whose truths electrify the sage.Farewell! and ne’er may Envy dareTo wring one baleful poison dropFrom the crushed laurels of thy bust:But while the lark sings sweet in air,Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe’er,Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plumeHer wings of immortality:Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,And with thine influence illumeThe gladness of our jubilee.

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe’er,

Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume

Her wings of immortality:

Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,

And with thine influence illume

The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly like fiends from secret spell,Discord and strife, atBurns’sname,Exorcised by his memory;For he was chief of bards that swellThe heart with songs of social flame,And high delicious revelry.

And fly like fiends from secret spell,

Discord and strife, atBurns’sname,

Exorcised by his memory;

For he was chief of bards that swell

The heart with songs of social flame,

And high delicious revelry.

And Love’s own strain to him was given,To warble all its ecstasiesWith Pythian words unsought, unwilled—Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,The choicest sweet of Paradise,In life’s else bitter cup distilled.

And Love’s own strain to him was given,

To warble all its ecstasies

With Pythian words unsought, unwilled—

Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,

The choicest sweet of Paradise,

In life’s else bitter cup distilled.

Who that has melted o’er his layTo Mary’s soul, in Heaven above,But pictured sees, in fancy strong,The landscape and the livelong dayThat smiled upon their mutual love?Who that has felt forgets the song?

Who that has melted o’er his lay

To Mary’s soul, in Heaven above,

But pictured sees, in fancy strong,

The landscape and the livelong day

That smiled upon their mutual love?

Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skilled one flame alone to fan:His country’s high-souled peasantryWhat patriot-pride he taught!—how muchTo weigh the inborn worth of man!And rustic life and povertyGrow beautiful beneath his touch.

Nor skilled one flame alone to fan:

His country’s high-souled peasantry

What patriot-pride he taught!—how much

To weigh the inborn worth of man!

And rustic life and poverty

Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him, in his clay-built cot,[82]the museEntranced, and showed him all the formsOf fairy-light and wizard gloom(That only gifted Poet views),The Genii of the floods and storms,And martial shades from Glory’s tomb.

Him, in his clay-built cot,[82]the muse

Entranced, and showed him all the forms

Of fairy-light and wizard gloom

(That only gifted Poet views),

The Genii of the floods and storms,

And martial shades from Glory’s tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouseThe swain whomBurns’ssong inspires?Beat not his Caledonian veins,As o’er the heroic turf he ploughs,With all the spirit of his sires,And all their scorn of death and chains?

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse

The swain whomBurns’ssong inspires?

Beat not his Caledonian veins,

As o’er the heroic turf he ploughs,

With all the spirit of his sires,

And all their scorn of death and chains?

And see the Scottish exile tannedBy many a far and foreign clime,Bend o’er his home-born verse, and weepIn memory of his native land,With love that scorns the lapse of time,And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

And see the Scottish exile tanned

By many a far and foreign clime,

Bend o’er his home-born verse, and weep

In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of time,

And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamped by Indian rivers wild,The soldier resting on his arms,InBurns’scarol sweet recallsThe scenes that blessed him when a child,And glows and gladdens at the charmsOf Scotia’s woods and waterfalls.

Encamped by Indian rivers wild,

The soldier resting on his arms,

InBurns’scarol sweet recalls

The scenes that blessed him when a child,

And glows and gladdens at the charms

Of Scotia’s woods and waterfalls.

O deem not, midst this worldly strife,An idle art the Poet brings:Let high Philosophy controlAnd sages calm the stream of life,’Tis he refines its fountain-springs,The nobler passions of the soul.

O deem not, midst this worldly strife,

An idle art the Poet brings:

Let high Philosophy control

And sages calm the stream of life,

’Tis he refines its fountain-springs,

The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecratesThe native banner of the brave,Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath,Rose, thistle, harp; ’tis she elatesTo sweep the field or ride the wave,A sunburst in the storm of death.

It is the muse that consecrates

The native banner of the brave,

Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath,

Rose, thistle, harp; ’tis she elates

To sweep the field or ride the wave,

A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pallIs crossed with mournful sword and plume,When public grief begins to fade,And only tears of kindred fall,Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,And greet with fame thy gallant shade?

And thou, young hero, when thy pall

Is crossed with mournful sword and plume,

When public grief begins to fade,

And only tears of kindred fall,

Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,

And greet with fame thy gallant shade?

Such was the soldier—Burns, forgiveThat sorrows of mine own intrudeIn strains to thy great memory due.In verse like thine, oh! could he live,The friend I mourned—the brave, the good—Edward that died at Waterloo![83]

Such was the soldier—Burns, forgive

That sorrows of mine own intrude

In strains to thy great memory due.

In verse like thine, oh! could he live,

The friend I mourned—the brave, the good—

Edward that died at Waterloo![83]

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!That couldst alternately impartWisdom and rapture in thy page,And brand each vice with satire strong,Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!

That couldst alternately impart

Wisdom and rapture in thy page,

And brand each vice with satire strong,

Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,

Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell! and ne’er may Envy dareTo wring one baleful poison dropFrom the crushed laurels of thy bust:But while the lark sings sweet in air,Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

Farewell! and ne’er may Envy dare

To wring one baleful poison drop

From the crushed laurels of thy bust:

But while the lark sings sweet in air,

Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,

To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

[82]Burns was born in a clay cottage, which his father had built with his own hands.[83]Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.

[82]Burns was born in a clay cottage, which his father had built with his own hands.

[83]Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.

Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:’Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life’s morning march, when my bosom was youngI heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,From my home and my weeping friends never to partMy little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart,Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn;And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;—But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:’Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:

’Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life’s morning march, when my bosom was youngI heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,From my home and my weeping friends never to partMy little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart,

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart,

Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn;And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;—But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

Stay, stay with us,—rest, thou art weary and worn;

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;—

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

At the silence of twilight’s contemplative hour,I have mused in a sorrowful mood,On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,Where the home of my forefathers stood.[84]All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,And lonely the dark raven’s sheltering tree:And travelled by few is the grass-covered road,Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trodeTo his hills that encircle the sea.Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,By the dial-stone agèd and green,One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,To mark where a garden had beenLike a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,All wild in the silence of nature, it drew,From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace,For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place,Where the flower of my forefathers grew.Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of allThat remains in this desolate heart!The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,But patience shall never depart!Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,In the days of delusion by fancy combinedWith the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,And leave but a desert behind.Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemnsWhen the faint and the feeble deplore;Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stemsA thousand wild waves on the shore!Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate!Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vainShall awake not the sigh of remembrance again:To bear is to conquer our fate.

At the silence of twilight’s contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,

Where the home of my forefathers stood.[84]

All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven’s sheltering tree:

And travelled by few is the grass-covered road,

Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,By the dial-stone agèd and green,One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,To mark where a garden had beenLike a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,All wild in the silence of nature, it drew,From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace,For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place,Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone agèd and green,

One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been

Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of nature, it drew,

From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace,

For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place,

Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of allThat remains in this desolate heart!The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,But patience shall never depart!Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,In the days of delusion by fancy combinedWith the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,And leave but a desert behind.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart!

The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,

But patience shall never depart!

Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,

In the days of delusion by fancy combined

With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,

Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind.

Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemnsWhen the faint and the feeble deplore;Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stemsA thousand wild waves on the shore!Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate!Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vainShall awake not the sigh of remembrance again:To bear is to conquer our fate.

Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore;

Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore!

Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,

May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate!

Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vain

Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again:

To bear is to conquer our fate.

[84]Kirnan.

How rings each sparkling Spanish brand,There’s music in its rattle;And gay, as for a saraband,We gird us for the battle.Follow, follow!To the glorious revelry,When the sabres bristle,And the death-shots whistle.Of rights for which our swords outspring,Shall Angoulême bereave us?We’ve plucked a bird of nobler wing—The eagle could not brave us.Follow, follow!Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—France shall ne’er enslave us:Tyrants shall not brave us.Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon’s flag,White emblem of his liver,For Spain the proud be Freedom’s shroud?Oh, never, never, never.Follow, follow!Follow to the fight, and sing—Liberty for ever:Ever, ever, ever.Thrice welcome hero of the hilt,We laugh to see his standard;Here let his miscreant blood be spiltWhere braver men’s was squandered.Follow, follow!If the laureled tricolorDurst not over-flaunt us,Shall yon lily daunt us?No! ere they quell our valour’s veins,They’ll upward to their fountainsTurn back the rivers on our plains,And trample flat our mountains.Follow, follow!Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—France shall ne’er enslave us:Tyrants shall not brave us.

How rings each sparkling Spanish brand,

There’s music in its rattle;

And gay, as for a saraband,

We gird us for the battle.

Follow, follow!

To the glorious revelry,

When the sabres bristle,

And the death-shots whistle.

Of rights for which our swords outspring,Shall Angoulême bereave us?We’ve plucked a bird of nobler wing—The eagle could not brave us.Follow, follow!Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—France shall ne’er enslave us:Tyrants shall not brave us.

Of rights for which our swords outspring,

Shall Angoulême bereave us?

We’ve plucked a bird of nobler wing—

The eagle could not brave us.

Follow, follow!

Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—

France shall ne’er enslave us:

Tyrants shall not brave us.

Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon’s flag,White emblem of his liver,For Spain the proud be Freedom’s shroud?Oh, never, never, never.Follow, follow!Follow to the fight, and sing—Liberty for ever:Ever, ever, ever.

Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon’s flag,

White emblem of his liver,

For Spain the proud be Freedom’s shroud?

Oh, never, never, never.

Follow, follow!

Follow to the fight, and sing—

Liberty for ever:

Ever, ever, ever.

Thrice welcome hero of the hilt,We laugh to see his standard;Here let his miscreant blood be spiltWhere braver men’s was squandered.Follow, follow!If the laureled tricolorDurst not over-flaunt us,Shall yon lily daunt us?

Thrice welcome hero of the hilt,

We laugh to see his standard;

Here let his miscreant blood be spilt

Where braver men’s was squandered.

Follow, follow!

If the laureled tricolor

Durst not over-flaunt us,

Shall yon lily daunt us?

No! ere they quell our valour’s veins,They’ll upward to their fountainsTurn back the rivers on our plains,And trample flat our mountains.Follow, follow!Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—France shall ne’er enslave us:Tyrants shall not brave us.

No! ere they quell our valour’s veins,

They’ll upward to their fountains

Turn back the rivers on our plains,

And trample flat our mountains.

Follow, follow!

Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—

France shall ne’er enslave us:

Tyrants shall not brave us.

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